Case For The Defence
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Dean is arrested in Boston, Massachusetts. There's only one lawyer capable of getting him off, and you know who that is. But does Dean want to be acquitted? For CalUK's Mix It Up challenge - my only crossover ever. Rated T for mild naughty words.
1. One

**One**

.

"It would seem, Mr Winchester, that our best course of action would be to plead temporary insanity," the man said, with carefully crafted charm and perhaps the merest hint of amusement.

Dean looked at the man standing in front of the desk to which he was handcuffed. He was almost tall, but not too imposing for a lawyer. However, Dean had come to recognise over the years that people who looked imposing rarely were, while the quiet ones… Well, they had to be watched.

"Really. You think that's gonna help?" he asked, managing to match the man's charm without even trying.

"No. But it would avoid having to explain to the jury that you 'hunt monsters' for a living - a story that is contrary to the belief of various law-enforcement agencies with whom you have copious records. I assume you're sticking to that story?"

"Don't have another."

"Story? Or living?"

"Both."

"I see."

"No, you don't."

The man unbuttoned the first of some rather attractive round holdfasts on his immaculate, fantastically expensive suit jacket and pulled out the wooden chair. He sat himself down with small movements that positively reeked of breeding and money, setting his briefcase on the bleak table of the police cell with a determined smile that Dean had seen many times before. On the face of a vampire, among others.

"I have a peculiar feeling this is going to be one of my more… _memorable_ cases," the man said with relish. He crossed his ankles without apparent hurry, lacing his hands in his lap and leaning back into the chair to appraise the Winchester at his leisure. "We haven't actually been introduced, and I must apologise for the rush here. They have treated you with haste and scorn in a city where arrests such as yours would have the tabloids attempting to batter down the door, if only anyone bothered to actually use the elementary education with which they were blessed and read your charges." He stood abruptly, holding his right hand out. "Mr Winchester, my name is--"

"Look, pal, you look like a lawyer, and you certainly sound like a lawyer, so I'm gonna pretend you _are_ a lawyer. But while I'm cuffed to this desk like Charlie Manson, I'm not really gonna be comfortable discussing my 'case'," Dean smiled serenely.

The man nodded. "I see. Well, under the circumstances, I don't see what harm a little personal freedom would do you." The man let his hand drop and turned on a dime to the door of the room. He banged and it opened. "Ah! There you are, my good man. Would you be kind enough to release my client from his bonds? The poor degenerate is already suitably weakened from six hours without food or water, and therefore completely physically unprepared to move any faster than I would trouble myself in these new shoes."

The police officer stepped inside and was followed by the lawyer as he made it to the table. He eyed Dean for a long moment before reaching over and unlocking the handcuffs.

"Don't make me put those back on," the officer said sternly.

"Y'know, if I was a chick, that offer would really do it for me. I'll be staying out of those for now," Dean winked with malicious amusement.

The lawyer's face cracked into an immediate and face-defeating grin that stayed aimed at Dean until the officer had left the room and secured the door once again. Dean's supercilious expression dropped like lightning.

The lawyer advanced on the table. "There we are. Better?"

"Oh yeah. I could do this every day," Dean grumbled, rubbing his wrist.

"Then I think it's time we were formerly introduced, Mr Winchester. I'll be your attorney."

"Until my real one gets here," Dean grunted, but offered his hand anyway. The man took it and they shook, both slightly surprised by the firmness of the others' grip.

"Oh I assure you, you will never need another lawyer," he said, his eyes fairly twinkling as their hands dropped. "My name," he added, letting one hand steal to the button in the middle of his suit jacket, "is Alan Shore."

.

* * *

.

Dean looked at the expensive table under his crossed arms as his forehead rested quite comfortably upon them. He pondered the craziness of the last twenty-fours in terms he could get his head around - which basically boiled down to a nuisance that stood between him and a cheeseburger. From a diner at least four hundred and twenty miles from his current position.

He lifted his head as he heard the swish of a plush door to the similarly opulent office. Eyeing the man who walked in, he managed a huff. "Thought you'd left me to my real lawyer."

"I _am_ your real lawyer, Mr Winchester. I did get your bail paid and you released into my firm's custody - no mean feat considering the charges against you," Alan smiled genially. "Your first choice of lawyer hasn't arrived, so you can stop fighting my help or simply plead guilty to murder and go down for a good few years. Which would you like?" he asked curiously.

Dean's eyes went past him to the closed door and he huffed. "Maybe he ain't comin'. You'll have to do," he admitted.

Alan inclined his head just a tad. He carried his long coat and briefcase to the chair opposite Dean, dropping one over the back rest and the other to the desk. "I asked them to bring you food. Did you get it?"

"I got something that would have passed for great if they'd left the meat in," Dean shrugged. "Thanks, though."

"It's my job, Mr Winchester. Now then," he said happily, making himself comfortable in the chair, busying around with several bulky manila files. "I've been reading the old FBI file on you, before and after you were declared dead - twice," he added with some awe. He sat back, closing a folder with certainty. "Odd that they refuse to believe you actually _are_ alive right now. How could they ignore such irrefutable evidence as a renowned lawyer swearing it's really you in the flesh?"

"You don't know me, pal," Dean said dismissively. "I could be anyone pretending to be Dean Winchester."

"True. Well, if you are… I must say, it's not what I expected at all."

"You were expecting someone taller?" Dean smirked.

Alan opened his mouth but there was a polite knocking on the door. He turned and Dean sat back to await this latest development.

"That would be me," said a voice, and once the owner was around the doorjamb he was indeed one of the tallest people Alan Shore had ever seen duck through the entrance to his office. The man walked in confidently enough, his briefcase under his arm and his longer-than-average brown hair swept back behind his ears in at least a pretence at decorum.

"And you would be?" Alan asked politely, getting to his feet and offering a hand.

Dean looked up at the new lawyer before the tightness to his eyes appeared to relax slightly. The new addition to the room put his hand out to Alan's and shook it.

"Charles Fort," he said, nodding.

"Ah yes, Mr Fort. Mr Winchester had all but given up hope of your arrival. Welcome to Crane, Poole and Schmidt," Alan smiled.

"I went to the county jail but they redirected me here. They say my client has a slight… imagination problem?"

"Perhaps," Alan acceded, but he looked back at Dean before appraising the newcomer. "If you don't mind me asking, why would he ask for you when this firm was given his case by the judge this morning?"

"I've worked with Mr Winchester before," Charles said with a nod.

"Really?" Alan havered, a slight smile on his face. "Been practising long?"

"Uh, no," Charles shrugged. "Actually? This is my first murder case."

"And you've come from…?"

"Oh, ah - Kansas. Rickard, Sutton and Sieveking," Charles nodded eagerly.

Alan's eyes narrowed slightly. "I see," he judged, in a tone that told Charles he did at that, and only too well. "So," he added suddenly, smiling and rubbing his hands in apparent cheer, "how do we divvy up this partnership?"

"Well, if it's ok with you, Mr Shore--"

"Oh please - call me Alan," he beamed.

"Alan then. If it's ok with you, I'd like to be… well, more of an observer. As I said, it's my first murder case and I've been a fan of yours for a while. I'd love to see how you do it," Charles nodded.

"Oh," Alan blinked. "I shall have to invite you to a sleep-over some time." He sniffed and turned back to the defendant, sitting and watching the two of them. "Have no fear, Mr Winchester," he said brightly, "I have tried many, _many_ cases in my time, and I have absolutely no intention of losing this one."

"Super," Dean managed.

Alan flourished his jacket to a close before sitting, pulling his briefcase toward him and opening it up. Charles pulled up a chair and looked at Dean. He frowned back at the taller man, darting his eyes at Alan with urgency, who was still hidden behind his briefcase. Charles pulled out the puppy eyes and shrugged almost indiscernibly.

Alan closed his case, slapping a rather hefty file on the table. "So then. Let's get to the night in question. The police caught you running from a scene where a woman was lying in the street, two rather large stab wounds in her body caused by the long, inscribed blade that you had in your hand at the time. It bore her blood and traces of flesh, and your sweat was on the handle. No other prints or traces were found. It looks bad. Can you explain what you were doing there?"

Dean sat back and looked at Charles Fort for a long moment.

"Please, enlighten us," Charles smiled, but it appeared a little too polite, a little too tight.

Dean cleared his throat, flicking his gaze up at Alan. "You won't believe me."

"Sir, I have seen midgets riding scooters down these very halls, a partner of the firm partying in a bunny costume, a high court judge arrange to kill his wife using a local nineteen forties pulp fiction reject, Victorian pornography collections, two grown men in Buzz Lightyear regalia fighting by the lift - and I myself have graced these offices dressed as a flamingo. Anything you tell me could conceivably rate a little lower than any one of those incidents on my personal disbelief meter."

Dean's worried frown spread into a smile. "Okie dokie." He sat forwards, lacing his fingers together to lean his arms on the table top. "Don't say I didn't warn you… I was there because the girl was possessed by a demon. She killed two people the night before - check the morgue - so she was stabbed with a charmed blade. Which I kinda stole from another demon."

"Mr Winchester, without trying to come across as some kind of TV junkie, I have had the misfortune to have been a captive audience to shows like _The Dresden Files_. Aren't you supposed to exorcise demons?" Alan asked with a ready smile.

"You can. But it's easier to stab 'em if they're right in front of you," Dean said, with an equally ready smile.

"Are you _sure_ you stabbed her?" Charles interrupted.

Dean turned his supercilious expression on him. "Want to ask me the angle of the blow? The splatter pattern? What colour her earrings were? Go right ahead, Gil Grissom," he said coldly.

Charles' chin stuck right out in abject vehemence. "Why don't you ask him why he's really here, Mr Shore?" he asked quietly.

"What? And entertain the notion he may _not_ be totally and in every way insane after all? Then I couldn't represent him," Alan grinned. "Still, it would be _fun_." He turned to look at Dean. "If I did ask you why you 'really' did it, what would you answer be? Remember, when they get you on the stand you won't be able to lie."

"I'm sure that would be no trouble for him," Charles put in, his teeth mostly together.

"It wouldn't be any trouble at all - I learn from those around me," Dean said, with surprising lethargy that Alan took to be reluctance. Dean looked away suddenly, at the table top. Alan watched the pair of them as he leant back in his chair, but said nothing.

Charles's face shifted into earnest territory again. "Just tell us what you thought you were doing."

Dean avoided his gaze. Alan studied him in silence.

"She was a demon," Dean insisted.

"I see," Alan sighed. He opened the manila file again. "You purport to be a monster hunter and killer, sir. Do you often do this in full view of an audience?"

"No-one saw it," Dean asserted suddenly.

"For your sake, I hope not," Alan observed quietly. He mused for a second before looking up from the file. "It says here you had no traces of blood on you at all. So you holding the murder weapon is decidedly circumstantial."

"Is that good?"

"It is," Alan nodded cheerfully. "Now all we have to do is come up with a reason for you wanting to run from a crime scene holding a bloodied jungle weapon."

"Tell us," Charles said firmly.

"No," Dean said forcefully to Alan, before pinning Charles with a look.

"Mr Winchester, _please _explain why you apparently stabbed a woman in the street last night, and were careless enough to get yourself arrested for it. It really is quite important."

Dean took a deep breath. He held onto it for a moment, looking undecided.

"Mr Winchester, I can't help you if I don't know the real details," Alan added, sounding much more gentle.

"No," Dean said quietly. "Just… no."

.

* * *

**_Yeah, you know why, right? Hope you like Alan. I adore him. :)_**

**_And yeah, in all the excitement I forgot to mention this is Boston Legal crossover!_**


	2. Two

**Two**

.

"Mr Winchester," Alan sighed.

"Just 'Dean'," the defendant rumbled petulantly. "Mr Winchester was my dad."

"Oh yes, your father… who died and left you the only legal family to look after your younger brother…" Alan flicked open the file in front of him and glanced at it. "…Sam?"

"Kinda."

"Hmm," Alan allowed. "Why are you determined not to tell anyone what happened?"

Dean's eyes went to Charles Fort's. The other man was watching him, a slow tide of red passing up his face, but the reason appeared unclear to Dean.

Charles raised his eyebrows. "Tell us that at least," he said, his voice hollow.

"No."

"If you don't--" Charles urged.

"No," Dean growled.

"Tell him!"

"It's got nothing to do with the case," Dean groused.

"My dear fellow, it _is_ the case," Alan smiled. "If you hadn't been arrested for running out of the alley brandishing the murder weapon covered in blood and gore, _none_ of use would be here now."

Dean swallowed and looked around the well-kept office. "Look, this ain't none of your business, so--"

"Indeed it is, Mr Winchester," Alan said sharply. "Do you _want_ to go to prison?"

"It's not your business," Dean growled.

"And why's that?"

"It's family business!"

"You and your brother's?"

"Yes!"

"Because?"

"Because we're all that's left, _that's_ why!" Dean hurled. "I had to look out for him, same as I've always done! I couldn't leave him there and let him get into it all over--!" He clamped his mouth shut.

Alan raised a single eyebrow before he got to his feet and walked over to the drinks cabinet in the side bar. He pulled out a bottle of scotch and began pouring out a rather generous measure.

"We go to trial tomorrow, Mr Winchester. Half the city think you should be put down for being rabid." He carried the glass over to the table, depositing it in front of the client. He sat himself down again and sniffed. "I don't care what you've done," he added quietly, "and I don't care how you feel about it. What I do care about - what matters to the jury most - is _why_," he added softly.

He looked up and caught his client watching the sparkling liquid in front of him with bitterness.

"The why, Mr Winchester, if you please. It can save you," he added gently.

Dean looked at him with a rueful smile and eyes that spoke volumes on betrayal and resignation. "Aw, I think it's too late for that, Mr Shore." He picked up the scotch and downed the entire glass in one shot.

Alan noticed with bewilderment and a little disappointment that the expensive liquor didn't cause the least bit of reaction in the man.

"Tell him," Charles said quietly.

Dean looked across the table at him. He raised his head, as if by looking down his nose he could smash the other lawyer's stare with ease. To Alan's surprise, it did just that, and Charles looked at the table top with resignation.

Dean pulled in a short breath, then looked directly at Alan Shore. "Nope," he declared flatly, his chin out, as if daring the lawyer to beat it out of him.

Alan appraised Dean with a tight smile. "Well that's not very helpful, Mr Winchester. I can't fight this with what I've got."

"Don't matter. Demon's been knifed. Sammy's safe for now."

"Sammy?" he prompted.

"--Sam," Dean amended quickly.

Alan's face took on a half-smile, as if half of his attention were stuck on how to engage his client and the other half on note-taking. "Hmm," he smiled, an evil glint already forming in both eyes by virtue of their predisposition regarding mischief - and turning things on their heads at every opportune moment.

He got up to go back to the bar, this time picking up the coffee pot from the hotplate. "I can see we have a lot of work to do if we're to get you off tomorrow," he said. "Coffee, Mr Fort?"

Charles sighed and got up, crossing the room.

A shorter, decidedly portly man rounded the doorjamb with almost a skip in his step. He stopped short, staring at Dean in the chair.

"Alan," he said curtly, curiosity applying for extra time but failing, "there's a good looking ruffian sitting in your office."

"Ah! Denny!" Alan grinned, appearing behind him. "This is our new client, Mr Winchester. Dean Winchester, this is Denny Crane."

"Client, you say? _Client?_" He hissed his demands with urgency, still meeting the seated man's gaze with a challenge. "Look at him! He's all rugged and car-mechanic rough! That," Denny said fearfully, stabbing a finger at Dean but looking at Alan, "is one of those 'dirty pool men' they talk about on all those stalking websites!"

"Denny, please. We don't need to know what websites you read in your spare time."

"Read? Who says I read?" Denny scoffed. He looked back at Dean. "You'll have to get rid of him! _I'm _the Captain of this ship! How are the girls here going to look at me with him sat there like that? There's only room for one devastatingly handsome man in this office - and that's _me_!" he asserted, dragging his stare off the client to fling it at his friend.

"While personally injurious, I understand the motivation behind your remarks, Denny. _However_," Alan stressed, dropping a hand upon the shoulder of the firm's largest ego, "be soothed by the knowledge that he is wanted for murder. We'll get him off and he will disappear back into the seedy underbelly of this grand country of equal opportunity for loonies that we call the United States."

"Just make sure you do, crewman," Denny affirmed.

"Hey, Captain Kirk," Dean interrupted, "I ain't happy about being here either. Just let Shore there do his job and I'll be out of your hair. Well, the hair you got left, anyway."

Denny's mouth dropped open. "Alan? I think he just insulted me," he complained. "He insults people and he's too good-looking!"

"I must apologise for the client, Mr Crane," said a voice from behind him.

Denny whirled around, catlike, to find another man standing a way behind Alan, in the middle of helping himself to coffee from the pot on the side.

"Good God! So is he!" he accused.

"Now now, Denny. This is Mr Charles Fort - known as Sam Winchester to his family," Alan said helpfully.

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, which Alan's free hand cut short with an amused, flourished wave.

"Oh come now, boys. I pride myself on having half a brain, and I have read both your files. It rather seems you two are smoke and fire - never one without the other." Alan let go of a puzzled Denny to walk toward Sam. "There _is_ no firm called Rickard, Sutton and Sieveking in Kansas - the names belong to a group of gentlemen who produce a little-known magazine called the 'Fortean Times'. According to research by my faithful assistant Clarence, their inspiration to do so was a Mr Charles Fort. And you _do_ rather answer the description of the wayward Sam. Really, it wasn't hard to put together." He spun, assessing Dean's warning look before turning back to the taller brother with a warm smile. "Would you trust me to win his case if I weren't able to put the least of the minutiae together, Sam?"

Sam shrugged, but it was clear he was past caring. "You got me. What now?"

"Now you need to fill in a few things that your brother seems unwilling to."

"Sam!" Dean warned sharply.

Sam looked over at Dean, judged his wrath too far away to be able to physically suppress him before he could get some words out. "I'll tell you what I know."

"God_damn_ it, Sam! What the Hell do you think I'm--"

"Mr Winchester, please," Alan interrupted.

"He's a very angry young man," Denny marvelled quietly. "I'll just… get back to my office." He turned for the door. "I'll feel better with my guns around me." He fled.

Alan watched him go with amusement, before turning back to look at both boys. "And you, Sam, what would make you feel better?" he asked, his eyes assessing the younger man who towered over him.

"Just get him off this murder charge. It's that or I break him out."

"Quite right!" Alan crowed with delight, a hand to his chest in admiration. "And what else are brothers for! Which, I have the most peculiar feeling, shall be the thrust of our case, by the way."

.

* * *

.

The following day was a blur. Dean was seated next to Alan, Sam on his right. Dean noticed neither the prosecutor nor the two police officers who took the stand to give damning evidence of having arrested him. What he could and did notice was the way the tide was flowing.

It was going his way alright, but it was bringing all the crap the high seas deposited on the carcasses of large dead sea creatures, the ones too dense to have fought or flown.

Which, Dean was realising with a sinking feeling rather akin to drowning in that sea of effluence, was actual exactly what he had done.

Failed to fight. Failed to fly. Failed at everything.

_Except saving Sammy from all that demon blood on that girl, getting arrested and prison._

He let himself glance at his silent, immaculately dressed brother with the totally unsuitable hair. A small smile fought for time on his lips before he felt a knock at his right elbow. "Whut?" he managed, realising Alan was talking at him.

"You have to sit in the chair," he repeated cheerfully.

"What!"

"I told you that you would called to the stand. Get up there," he smiled. Then he added a few extra layers of unctuousness: "Try not to look like such a ruffian."

Dean's face twisted into something that Alan was positive was about to spew forth terrible epithets, and he smiled, recognising the first hurdle had been jumped. However, no snippy comeback materialised from Dean as he stood quietly.

"Good luck," came a small voice, and Dean looked back at his brother. Sam tried a hopeful smile but it came out rather cornered.

Dean stepped out from behind the desk and was guided by a rather large court bailiff to the little box and its accompanying seat. Despite his years in all kinds of places, the slap of the wooden gate closing made him jump and his skin tighten, as if unbreakable bonds were already being snapped around his wrists for all eternity.

_No wait,_ he thought suddenly, _that's been done. And I'm still here._

He looked up and found Alan before him. "Mr Winchester. Have you been sworn in?"

"What?" His look of cluelessness apparently went down well with the jury.

"Have you taken an oath?" Alan smiled.

"What kind?" Dean asked, looking around at the judge for help.

The judge - a large man with no patience, it seemed - put a hand over the microphone and leaned toward the witness stand. "Mr Winchester, have you put your hand on the Bible and sworn to tell the truth here today?"

"Why the Hell would I need a Bible to do that?" Dean demanded, aghast. He heard the sound of a palm colliding with a forehead and knew without looking it was Sam's.

The judge blinked. He sighed and looked at Alan, who was not remiss in taking up the slack, hearing the slight noises of amusement from the jury already.

"Mr Winchester," he said grandly, buttoning up his suit jacket and walking to stand in front of the judge. He turned to look at his client. "Do you swear to tell the truth here today?"

"Well that's kinda the point, ain't it? Don't waste my time," he tutted.

"Please enter for the record that we understand that passes for a yes in his world," Alan grinned.

The judge simply rolled his eyes.

"And Mr Winchester, could you tell us if you stabbed the lady in question? Miss Celia White?" Alan continued.

"I could." Dean's eyes bored into the man not twenty feet away.

"And?"

"And yeah, I could."

"Then do it," the judge boomed. "Don't you waste _my_ time, Mr Winchester," he threatened.

Dean blew out a breath. "Alright then." He paused for a long moment, his eyes sweeping round the room. He wiped a hand over his face.

"Anytime today, if you please," Alan said politely, still smiling.

"No," Dean managed.

"No what?" Alan asked.

"No, I didn't actually stab her."

"Oh! Really? But you said you did," Alan said quickly, ignoring the surprised sounds from the seated watchers and assorted people behind him. "Why would you lie to the police?"

"I didn't. They just never asked me. They saw me with the knife and the next thing I know, I'm face down on the hood. I know I like a bit of rough stuff, but not with guys," he tutted.

Alan heard the jury's amusement and hoped they were warming to the defendant as planned. "And so when they arrested you, and asked you repeatedly if you stabbed her, what did you say?"

"Nothin'."

"Hmm. Curious," Alan mused. "Most people shout and scream until their lungs give out, protesting their innocence." He looked at Dean, a hand out in mystification. "Why didn't _you_?"

Dean wet his lower lip, his eyes darting away from the desk at which he knew his brother to be sat.

Suddenly, he found his boots to be the most interesting things in the known universe.

"Mr Winchester?" Alan prompted.

"She was dead when I found her, ok? I got the knife and the Doughnut Department saw me. I ran and they grabbed me. End of story," he informed his footwear.

Alan again heard one or two breaths of amusement from the jury. He sniffed to himself to hide his glee. "When you say you 'got the knife', Mr Winchester, what do you mean? Exactly?"

Dean stared daggers at him. _He said he was on our side!_ he raged. "I took the knife."

"You… _took_… the knife. From whom?"

Dean let his head tilt as his gaze swayed round the courtroom. "Someone else."

"Mr Winchester," the judge protested suddenly. "You will answer the questions like a grown-up or I'll find you in contempt."

"Fine!" Dean snarled. "I took it off my brother."

.

.

* * *

**_Thanks for giving this a chance, people. I really appreciate it!_**


	3. Three

**Three**

.

There were quiet gasps from the jury and assembled audience at the back of the room.

Alan laced his fingers and approached the witness box slowly. "You took it from _your brother_. Which explains why your clothes were not bloodied, and why no physical evidence could be found of you actually _at_ the crime scene other than the knife in your hand." He stared at his client unswervingly. "And what had your brother done with the knife, Mr Winchester?"

"Didn't see him do anything with it."

"But you found him staring down at the prone form of Miss Celia White, like the lecherous, blood-thirty killer he is--"

"You lie about my brother and I'll tear you a new one!" Dean exploded. "I got there after he'd done it! He wanted what she had - I stopped him gettin' it! I will _not_ watch him go down that road again! He just got away from all that addiction crap, and so help me - _any_ gods you wanna name - I will gladly go back to Hell before I see him out of his gourd on that stuff again!"

The room was silent. Not a person moved.

Dean stared at Alan with hatred. He picked up movement from behind him, his eyes automatically drawn to Sam's hand that swept back through his hair. Dean looked away quickly, his hands grasping at each other but refusing to twist.

Alan smiled rather tightly, looking around the room. He assessed the looks on the assembled jurors and then his eyes swept over Sam. He thought for a long moment. Then he took a deep breath before he put a hand to his chest, staring at the floor.

"Mr Winchester, how old were you when your mother died?" he called out.

Dean eyed him. "Four. What has--"

"And how old was your brother?"

"Six months. Now what--"

"And who brought him up after she was gone?"

"Well, Dad. And me. But--"

"And where is your father now?"

"He's dead. Don't you--"

"He's dead. Your parents, all living relatives, everyone, dead. Tell me, Mr Winchester, what were you doing on your twelfth birthday?"

"Wh--. What?"

"When you turned twelve? In nineteen ninety-one. What were you doing?"

"I… ah… It was a long time ago."

"Oh, I'm sure you remember."

Dean huffed. "I was… Dad was out. I was lookin' out for Sammy, that's all."

"Sammy being…?"

"Sam! My brother!"

"The brother who is the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer you couldn't stand to see get sucked back into his addiction?"

"I told you! He ain't--"

"The brother who is the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer you have protected from childhood?"

"Mr Shore," the judge intoned. "Do you really think it's wise to badger your own witness?"

Alan whirled on the balls of his feet. "I do, Your Honour," he replied with a bright smile. His gaze swept past Sam and stopped, assessing the hurt look on the younger man's face. He sniffed and looked back at Dean quickly. "So, this brother - the lecherous, blood-thirsty killer," he continued, waving a hand to negate his own remarks with cynicism, "how old was he?"

"Ah… I don't know… Small?" Dean managed, baffled.

"In January of nineteen ninety-one he would have been seven years old. What were you doing on your birthday? Having a party with your twelve-year-old friends?"

"I was helping him with his homework," he said quietly.

"You were? Where was your father?"

"Dad was away. He was always away," Dean mumbled. "I helped Sam with his homework, made him some pizza and put him to bed."

"And then?" Alan asked quietly.

"Then he starts screaming. I ran into his room…" Dean's gaze landed on the wooden surround of the witness box. He cleared his throat purposefully. "The candle had fallen over. The curtains were on fire. I pulled him out and grabbed the shower hose… Sprayed half the room but got the damn fire out."

"You saved your little brother from a fire. Interesting," Alan mused. "Much like you had done in nineteen eighty-three?"

"_Dad_ saved him. He just gave him to me," Dean muttered.

"Speak up, Mr Winchester. Did you carry your brother out of the house?"

"Yeah."

"And now that you two are the only family left, who looks after whom?"

"Excuse me?"

"I said, who looks after whom? Do you nanny him, or does he nanny you, these days?"

Dean's jaw stuck out. "I don't nanny him. I tell him not to take candy from strangers. He still does," he accused, his voice more of an angry growl. He paused, his gaze flicking to the immobile form of Sam. He noticed the pout, the eyebrows that told him Sam just wanted everything to be alright for a change. Dean looked at Alan hastily. "And then I try and pick up the pieces for him."

"Why?"

"Why? _Why?_ What kinda man _are_ you?" Dean demanded angrily. "He's my brother!"

Alan fanned his hands in patent surrender. "Of course he is, I do apologise," he said sincerely, one hand to his heart. He let his hand drop and his head tilted to one side. "Tell us about this… addiction of his."

"What has it got to--"

"Mr Winchester, just for once, do as Counsel directs," the judge sighed.

Dean cast him a dirty glance before shifting in the chair slightly. "My brother was an addict. Still is, but he's dry. For now. I thought he was all the way right, but he's not. If it's there in front of him, and he just has the smallest slip--. He's right back in it."

"What does that have to do with getting him clear of a dead body?" Alan asked slowly.

Dean wet his lower lip before looking over at the jury slowly. He huffed and shook his head before lifting his chin to pin Alan with a hard gaze. "She had some of the stuff on her, ok? He was staring straight at it. I made him leave before it could torture him."

"You saved him," Alan offered, his voice strangely quiet.

Dean met his gaze before it flicked to his brother. Sam's chin lifted and he nodded in vindication. Dean's eyes shifted from side to side and they were rammed safely at his boots.

"Oh, sorry, one more question, sir." Alan approached the box slowly, knowing the jury was practically craning to hear and see. "Mr Winchester - Dean." He paused, putting his hands on the wooden box lightly. "Do you, or do you not, believe that your brother stabbed Miss Celia White?"

"I…"

"Yes or no?" Alan pressed gently.

"Don't make me do this," Dean threatened.

"_Yes_ or _no_?"

"You bastard."

"Answer the question, Mr Winchester," the judge boomed, waving a hand in a circle at him.

Dean rubbed his forehead in anguish. "I know he did."

"No further questions, Your Honour," Alan grinned, tapping the wood and turning away. He strode back to his table. "Your turn," he nodded at the prosecutor. Alan sat, looking at Sam across the empty chair between them.

Dean blew out a breath, keeping his head tilted toward the floor.

A tall lady, dressed very smartly in a rather fitted suit that Dean would have admired had he not been her target, pushed her chair back from the Prosecuting Attorney's desk.

Something caught Dean's eye and he looked past her to see Alan and his brother in deep discussion. Alan pulled a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and Sam took it quickly. As Dean watched, confused, Sam patted Alan on the shoulder and got up. He picked up his case and belongings and made a very quiet exit.

All without looking back.

Alan turned in the chair to watch him go. Then he turned around again, smiling smugly at Dean.

The prosecuting attorney moved into Dean's line of sight. "Mr Winchester," she said genially. "How are you feeling today?"

"I'd rather be washing my car," he said with obviously false cheer, sending a ripple of amusement through the jury that the judge's harsh glance was quick to suppress.

"Mr Winchester," she said politely. "You say you picked up the knife. Why would you do that?"

"No, I said I took it from my brother," Dean said slowly. "Were you here for that bit of the conversation?"

Heads in the jury looked back at the prosecutor, apparently amused.

"Yes, forgive me," she smiled. It was not a nice smile. "So you took the from knife from your brother. Did he have blood on his hands?"

"One."

"Which one?"

"His right."

"And did he have blood on his shirt?"

"Yeah, a little," Dean admitted darkly.

"Did you have blood on your hands, Mr Winchester?"

"No."

"Not from the knife?"

"I don't grab the sharp ends of things, lady. I had the handle. It was clean," he said slowly.

"Of course. So you took the knife from your brother and you told him to run. Is that it?"

Dean swallowed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I took the knife off him and I pulled him away from the dead girl. He was just staring…" he managed, a far away look on his face, "…just staring like…" He cleared his throat. "I turned him around and I told him to run."

"And he just left?"

"Not straight away."

"Why not?"

"Cos he didn't want me cleaning up after him, that's why!" he shot back angrily. "Don't see what difference it makes, seeing as I been doing it since I was four!"

"Sir… You know that your brother killed a woman in cold blood. And all you did was make him run away?"

Dean sat back and blew out a huff. He looked over at the judge, then at Alan slowly. He raised a hand and waved it encouragingly. Dean looked back at the prosecuting attorney.

"He needs help, someone to watch his back," Dean muttered. "He ain't going to get that if you people lock him up."

"Mr Winchester, where is your brother now?" she asked.

"How the Hell should I know?" he snapped. "Go ask the police, they're supposed to be looking for him."

She tilted her head. "Are you sure you don't know where he is, Mr Winchester? You know you can't lie here today."

He lifted his head and looked at her. "I am real sure I don't know where he is," he said clearly. "You done, lady?"

"A bit of respect, please, Mr Winchester," the judge intoned. Dean shifted in the seat but said nothing.

The prosecutor smiled. "How many phones do you possess, Mr Winchester?"

"Objection," Alan said pleasantly, getting to his feet. "Prosecution is quite capable of getting dates without asking for defendants' phone numbers."

"Overruled," the judge tutted. "Mr Winchester, answer the question."

"Easy," Dean said flatly. "I don't have any phone, since the police took the one I _did_ have. Haven't seen it since I was arrested."

"And you have no way of contacting your brother?"

"Not right now."

"But you say he needs help."

"He does."

"So if you're found guilty, how will that help him?"

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at his hands.

"Mr Winchester?" she pressed. "How will that help him?"

"It's better than him being banged up," Dean murmured. "He can't protect himself in there."

"From whom?"

"Anyone," Dean shot back, looking up.

"Mr Winchester, isn't it more plausible that _you_ stabbed this girl?"

"Why would that be more plausible?"

"Because no-one here has ever seen your brother," she said quickly. "In fact, the police cannot trace him, nor can they find the black car in which you told the police you arrived here in Boston."

"So? I never seen a real giraffe but I'm sure they're out there in Africa somewhere!"

"You killed her, didn't you, Mr Winchester?"

"No."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't!"

"Objection!" Alan said sharply, jumping to his feet. "Council is badgering the witness! I assure you, my client will not change his answer if you ask him the same question three times!"

The judge nodded. "Sustained." He looked over at the prosecuting attorney. "Miss Williams, you will get to the point, please."

"Of course, Your Honour," she allowed. She tugged her jacket straight and appraised Dean with a critical eye that he took with offence. "Mr Winchester, for the record - was your brother ever at the crime scene?"

"How many times - of course he was at the friggin' crime--" he began hotly.

"Language, Mr Winchester," the judge intoned.

"I'm on trial for my life and I can't curse like an eight o'clock CBS drama?" he protested.

"No," the judge said, deliberately slowly.

Dean slipped slightly down in the seat resentfully, sniffing to himself. He looked up at the woman.

She pinned him with a hard gaze. "And it is your testimony that he killed Miss White and then you made him leave?"

"Yes!"

"So why is there no evidence of him at the crime scene?"

"I don't know, I'm not CSI: Boston," he snapped. "Go ask the police!"

"You keep saying that, Mr Winchester," she snapped back. "Are you relying on the local police to somehow produce miracle evidence to prove you even _have_ a brother?"

"Look!" Dean seethed. "This may be all fun and games to you, lady--"

"Mr Winchester--" the judge began.

"--But I couldn't give a rat's ass for your fancy questioning and lame attempts at pinning something on me that _everyone_ knows I didn't do--!"

"Mr Winchester!"

"--Have _you_ ever sat there and listened to _your baby brother_ screaming as he dries out from some evil high he's been on? _No!_ So don't you stand there like some holier-than-thou apple-pie lifer and tell me I shouldn't have stopped him from _having to go through it again!_"

"Mr Winchester!" the judge shouted, lifting his gavel and pounding it into the base. "You will treat this court and its Counsel with the proper respect!"

Dean's lips thinned together and his eyebrows rammed down, more than enough to show everyone concerned what he thought of _that_ idea. But he said nothing.

He looked over at Alan with clear accusation in his demeanour. Alan leaned back in his chair, looking down his nose at him slightly. Then he smiled. Dean blinked, confused, before the prosecutor walked back up to his wooden box. She levelled him with a rather too cool, collected gaze that he stared at with contempt.

"No further questions, Your Honour," she said plainly. She turned, walked away, and sat down.

"You may step down, Mr Winchester," the judge allowed. "And we will all take an hour's break to cool off before I'm dragged back in here to hear closing remarks."

He banged the gavel and was gone.

.

.


	4. Four

**Four**

.

The door to the attorney's chambers closed behind them and Dean immediately yanked on Alan's arm, pulling him round to face him.

"What the Hell was that?" he demanded. "You said you were gonna _help_ us!"

"And I _am_ helping you, Mr Winchester," Alan marvelled, taken aback by the man's ferocity.

"Explain why you just got me to spill to the world that Sam really did stab that girl!"

"So that _you_ don't go down for it," Alan shrugged cheerfully. "And you won't. There is no evidence, no motive, no reason - and the jury will see that. They will see that your brother did it, and you were mistakenly caught for it while trying to save him from his little problem. They might want to nail you for obstructing justice or aiding and abetting, but unfortunately, they didn't bring those charges to begin with. They _will_ _have to_ acquit you on the charges brought here today - you were up for _murder_, Mr Winchester, and enough reasonable doubt has been shown to get us a 'not guilty' verdict--"

"You sure about that? That lawyer chick seemed pretty confident!"

"We all seem confident, Mr Winchester," he said calmly, watching his client step back one. "Please trust my years of experience. I do not believe we're done for just yet." He lifted his wrist and checked his watch. "However, I _do_ believe Sam is on his way to one of the Dakotas right now. He mentioned a family friend who would help him go to ground until you found a way to catch him up without leading them to him with their new warrant for _his_ arrest."

"Why'd you make him leave the room like that?" Dean took another step back, forcing himself to cool down.

"Because it was obvious his presence was not… conducive to your ability to tell the 'lawyer chick' what she needed to hear," he smiled.

"Oh," Dean managed, confused.

"And anyway, how else could be swing by the room that keeps the exhibits?"

"Whatever," Dean breathed, feeling himself to be several floors beneath whatever plot Alan had put into motion. He looked up quickly. "So you _did_ finger Sam on purpose?"

Alan's face slid into distaste for a whole second.

Dean closed his eyes. "You know what I mean!" he insisted.

"Yes, Mr Winchester, I know what you mean. And yes, I did put the blame, rather accurately, on Sam. Because he'll never be caught." He watched Dean walk away across the chambers, wiping his forehead as he went. "Your burden has been a long and unhappy one, has it not?" Alan inquired quietly.

"So?" Dean rumbled.

"Is this the first time anyone has ever fought your corner for you?" Alan's voice was soft, worried.

Dean didn't look at him. "Ahm… yeah. Sorry for… giving you crap over this. And thanks for… well, thanks for still--"

"Doing my job? Don't mention it. I meet worse as colleagues." He sniffed and turned to his briefcase, opening the two clasps with expert pressure from his thumbs. "It makes a change for someone in a place like this to actually act how they feel, rather than pretending we're all above the scowling and jaw-clenching that you are so good at when being cross-examined," he beamed, as if talking to himself. "It's refreshingly different."

"Nice to know I'm good for something," Dean grunted.

Alan snorted in amusement. "I believe you did not kill Miss Celia White, or I would not represent you." He looked up slowly, watching his client keep his face averted. "I have a question, though."

"It's your job, right? Man, I couldn't live my life questioning the facts of everything."

Alan's smile turned sad. "If I could venture an observation… It seems to me that you spend your time avoiding the facts of everything," he offered quietly. "Yes?"

"Whatever," Dean grumped.

Alan nodded to himself. "So. Your brother, Sam. If indeed he _did_ kill this girl… and you mentioned he needs help with his addiction - which doesn't seem to be the normal, run of the mill kind…"

"Well?" Dean asked quietly.

"Well how do you live with it?"

"Live with what?" Dean asked, turning to look at him.

"With knowing that he's a monster who kills people for his addiction?"

Dean stared for a long moment. Alan waited, noticing the resignation chase the guilt from his face. "He's not a monster," Dean said quietly. "He just… He's in a bad situation. We all are. We'll find a way out, though."

Alan appraised him as if he had all the time in the world. "You don't strike me as an optimist, Mr Winchester."

"I'm not. We'll find a way out. Cos we have no choice." He turned away again, ostensibly to look at the bookcase.

Alan let his head tilt in curiosity. "I sense I do not know the full story here," he offered quietly.

"It's better that way," Dean grumped to himself. "So," he said more loudly, turning round. "Either they'll let me off or I'll fry, hang, or whatever you do in Boston."

"You don't care?"

"No I do not," Dean said clearly.

"You should get out more. See the sunshine. Put your feet in the river, open a beer. Or go fishing!" he said, suddenly gleeful. "I know this place in Canada, it's the best place to relax and--"

"Thanks," Dean interrupted. "But it's not really me."

"Yes, I rather think you're right," Alan smiled, the warmth touching his eyes. He turned back to his briefcase. "Take a seat, Mr Winchester. We have an hour to wait."

.

* * *

.

The door opened and the bailiff popped his head in.

"Mr Shore, sir? Court is convening," he said.

"Thank you," Alan said politely. He closed his newspaper and folded it neatly, sitting up in the chair. "Well I hope you're ready for this bit," he said amiably to the man on the leather sofa by the opposite wall. "This is where it really gets--"

He stopped short, eyeing the man who had melted into the furniture as if he had always meant to be there. Alan got up slowly, approaching his client, finding him completely dead to the world in the kind of sleep he, rather ironically, dreamed about.

"Been a hard week, I take it," he said to himself. He sighed, reaching down and pushing at the checked shirt over Dean's shoulder. "Mr Winchester?"

Dean snorted awake. "Bacon!" he blurted, before blinking and wrinkling his nose at the sight of Alan peering into his face from above. "Oh. It's you."

"Yes. Ready, Mr Winchester?"

"What are we doing now?" he groused, sitting up properly and scrubbing at his face with both hands.

"Now you are going to avail yourself of my executive washroom so as not to appear so shoe-leather worn, and then we are going to have a war of the closing arguments."

"Oh," Dean managed. He pushed himself to stand, Alan retreating to give him room. "Yeah. One minute."

"Of course," Alan allowed.

Dean disappeared into the small room and Alan let his head tilt as a million thoughts ran through it.

.

* * *

.

"Prosecution," the judge said with due weariness, "your closing remarks, please. And make it good, this is starting to feel like a repeat of _Titanic_ without the commercial breaks."

"Thank you, Your Honour," she said smartly, getting to her feet. She walked to stand in front of the jury, her hands laced in front of her. "You've heard Mr Winchester's testimony. He expects us to believe that there was a phantom brother involved, who stabbed poor, misfortunate Celia White for whatever illegal and addictive substance she was supposed to be carrying."

She paced to her right, looking at her black high heels. "But here's the thing: no trace can be found of anyone at the crime scene. The only DNA evidence we do have is the mixture of sweat and sloughed skin on the handle of the knife - the defendant's DNA. The brother cannot be traced, and neither can the car the defendant claims he arrived in, and his brother left in." She stopped and looked up at the jury. "Neither can we find evidence of his claim that Miss White was carrying drugs. The police have no reason to suspect she was ever involved in drug activities, and in fact, she appeared to be a model citizen."

Miss Williams turned and began to pace to the other side of the jury stand. "So the question becomes: do we believe all these wild statements the defendant has made? You saw for yourself how edgy, how angry, how worried he was on the stand. Look at him now."

She stopped and turned, pointing back at Dean's carefully impassive face across the courtroom. "Look at his size, his strength, his whole arrogant attitude. He had the means - the knife with his sweat on it. He had the opportunity - the alley was hardly busy that night. And the motive… ah yes, the motive."

She looked back at the jury slowly. "The Counsel for the Defence barred us from showing you the murder weapon. If they hadn't, you would have seen the Satanic markings on the blade that _that_ man--" she turned and pointed again, "--used to kill Celia White."

"Objection!" Alan said immediately.

"You can't object to closing remarks, Mr Shore," the judge spluttered.

"Your Honour," Alan scoffed, springing to his feet in indignation, "she was not allowed to show the murder weapon in court, but she's allowed to tell them her unqualified and unconfirmed thoughts as to the engravings upon it? Why suddenly brand them 'Satanic'? Why not Laura Ashley, Juicy Couture, or simply Arabic? I've seen the blade myself, the pattern would go very nicely on a table runner I have--"

"Mr Shore, you've made your point," the judge boomed. "Now sit down!"

Alan closed his jacket slowly, sniffed to himself, and buttoned it up. He cleared his throat and sat.

"Thanks anyway," Dean muttered from next to him. "That was good."

Alan looked at him, then put a hand out, patting Dean's elbow nearest him.

"Wait till we get to my turn," Alan assured him. "It's been a long time since I've rock and rolled."

Dean caught the lyrics and looked at him, surprised. Alan simply smiled and looked up at the prosecutor.

"Anyway… Think about Miss White's family," Miss Williams continued. "Think of the closure they'll never get, the satisfaction of knowing their daughter's killer is in a place he can't hurt anyone else that they will never feel with the defendant roaming the country, free. He can magic up brothers and make up excuses for why he was there - but when it comes down to it, you are smarter than him, and you are able to see the truth here. And you're able to see him for what he is - a murderer. I hope you can find it in your hearts to give the White family some peace, some judgement. As I would hope they might do the same for any of you if you ever found yourself in such a terrible situation. Think of him getting away with this, simply because he distracted us with tales of phantom brothers while thinking he had committed the perfect crime - no evidence, no witnesses. And then think how you can find him guilty of this evil, evil act. And do what Celia White's family are begging you to do for them."

She nodded solemnly before turning to her desk. She walked back slowly, her high heels thudding only slightly against the carpet.

Dean leaned his head closer to Alan's. "We are so screwed," he breathed.

Alan opened his mouth but the judge's voice interrupted him.

"Thank you for your closing, Prosecution," he called. "Mr Shore? You're up."

.

.

* * *

_Da da da daaaaaa! Final chapter goes up Wednesday 31st March. :) Thanks for reading so far!_


	5. Five

**FIVE**

.

Alan got up, smiling and turning to face the twelve watchers of the jury.

"You've heard Mr Winchester's testimony. You've heard the prosecution ask you to think of Miss White's family and achieve justice for them. But the simple fact of the matter here is that pinning a crime on the first available passer-by is not justice. They cannot prove my client killed Miss Celia White. Why can't they? Because of the complete lack of evidence, caused by the fact that he _didn't_ kill her. No - someone else killed her, someone else he was trying to stop. Is it his fault he failed? No. The man in question - who is known to police from previous arrests and yet still cannot be located, even though they know the make, model and indeed license plate of the 'get away' vehicle - is by all accounts - including those of the FBI--"

"Objection," the prosecuting attorney said quickly. "No FBI files were admitted as evidence."

The judge turned a damning eye on Alan Shore.

"Well of course they weren't," Alan breezed innocently, turning to look at the other attorney, "just as your Satanic knife wasn't. You get to allude to the knife making my client look like a Satan worshipper, plugging the rather large hole where your 'motive' should be, and I get to allude to the 'phantom brother', as you put it, actually being recorded by the FBI as a dangerous individual! We're even!" he grinned ebulliently.

"Mr Shore, just get on with it," the judge grumped.

"Of course," he nodded. "Anyway, where were we… Hmm, clever disruption tactics aside--"

"Mr Shore," the judge boomed.

"Yes yes, I'm so sorry, Your Honour," he grinned. "Ah… yes. So, this brother cannot be located, but he is _alleged_, possibly by the FBI, to be a strapping twenty-six-year-old in possession of all his faculties. No, it was not Mr Winchester's fault he did not stop the killer in time. Did he try to stop him _before_ his brother stabbed Miss White? Do I really have to answer that for you people after my client's turn on the stand?"

He smiled, appraising his shoes as he waited for this to sink in. He looked at the jury again.

"Here is a man who has spent his entire life - his entire _life_ - looking after his little brother. And wouldn't you? Your mother is killed in a housefire when you're four, your father does what he can but he drinks himself to sleep most nights, and then there's little Sam - innocent little Sammy - starved for affection and someone to raise him. So in steps Dean - the big brother, the role model, the one person who can make someone of him."

Alan put his hands out in helplessness.

"But it doesn't go as planned. Poor Sam has a problem - a problem Dean tries to help with. He does his best, his _very_ best… But you are familiar with this, aren't you? You have children, siblings, younger family members, am I right?" he asked, stretching a supplicating hand out toward the jury. "You know that moment when your brother or sister or your own child comes up to you with that angelic, sweet look of innocence on their face and asks you why the butterfly they caught for you is now on its back with its legs in the air? And you have to explain to them that they killed it, that they destroyed their present to you?" He paused, noticing the water in the eyes of the female juror at the front. "How much more does that hurt, when that poor little sibling is now a young man, unable to comprehend what he is doing to others while under the influence of some popular street drug? That he does not see, cannot understand, that he is shredding his brother's very soul day by day with the struggle with his addiction?"

He shook his head sadly.

"And then one day it gets worse. One day the little brother does something so terrible, so _awful_, that you have to make a snap decision on what's best for them. So you do. You pull them clear - just the same as every other time you have guided them free of trouble, or say - rescued them from a burning building. A burning _building!_ This man, my client, Dean Winchester--" he cried, turning to point at the solitary figure sat motionless at the defence counsel's table, "--has pulled his baby brother from life-threatening scrapes while still too young to sit a proper school exam, and yet when he tries to save that young man from himself years later, he is incarcerated for it! All he did, ladies and gentlemen, all he was aiming to do, was protect his brother from gaining more of the drug he thought he needed."

He shrugged in surrender, his hands out.

"How many times have _you_ done that, or I? 'No', we say to little Jimmy with his hand in the cookie jar, 'those are bad for you'. Little Jimmy doesn't understand, he doesn't get it, he is angry. But _we_ know what is best for him, _we_ know how to make sure he doesn't get his sugar fix and repeat the sordid sugar-high-comedown-tantrum over and over again. What do we do?" he demanded flippantly. He paused to reduce his volume, letting his hands drop. "We screw the lid more tightly closed… and we place the jar on a higher shelf."

He paused for breath, watching the jurors carefully.

"That's all my client did. That's all he has been doing for the last twenty or so years as he grew up, and then more recently during his brother's addiction - because _there was no-one else_. With no days off, no holidays, no government-paid-for trips to Walt Disney World for his decades of self-sacrifice. The prosecution will have you believe that he is guilty of the murder of Miss Celia White, just because - and it really is the _only_ reason at all they have to suspect him - he had the knife in his hand. The knife in his hand apparently equals guilt of the murder of a young woman."

Alan stopped to look over his shoulder at Dean. He turned back to face the jury.

"Not so," he said quietly. "You heard him yourself; he is fiercely protective of his brother. All he's ever done, all he's ever _wanted_ to do, is put the lid on that cookie jar and find the right shelf that was finally high enough. He managed to get it one higher that day, and I know that, wherever he has got to, his brother is grateful. But without his brother to help him - to _save_ him, he'll just find a stepladder to reach that cookie jar."

Alan waved a hand at Dean, watching him. "Ignore his record of saving and caring for his brother," he said stridently, his voice echoing round the courtroom. "Ignore how many times he's sacrificed everything he had for him. Ignore too how he tried rather stupidly to do it in this courtroom. But do _not_ ignore what he _did not do_." He turned to look at the jurors. He raised his hands, touching his index fingers to the tips of this thumbs, waving them to punctuate his next words: "He _did not_ kill anyone." He paused, eyeing them earnestly. "He kept - the lid - on the cookie jar."

He inclined his head, brought his jacket to a close, and walked back to his desk.

The judge took in the stunned silence of the room. He sighed and lifted the gavel. "Court is adjourned while we await the jury's verdict."

.

* * *

.

Alan sat in the comfortable chair slowly, relaxing back into it. He watched his client aim himself at the sofa and drop onto the leather surface. He opened his mouth, about to ask after the worried expression on the younger man's face. He abandoned the idea as Dean blew out a sigh and perched an elbow on his knee. He let his forehead sink into the upturned palm and his eyes sink closed.

"I'm guessing no-one's ever noticed what you really do for a living, have they?" Alan offered quietly.

Dean didn't move. "People that need me to hunt down their monsters? Oh, they notice alright," he grunted.

"That's not the burden I was referring to."

Dean opened his eyes and let his hand drop. He looked up at Alan and the lawyer stared back, fascinated by the voracious curiosity in the hunter's gaze.

"If what you say is true about these… monsters," Alan dared, "then I suspect you're very good at what you do. Or you would be dead by now."

"Who says I haven't died already?" Dean said, smiling slightly.

Alan's face took on a whimsical smile. "I suppose the fight for all of us in this day and age is to prove we're still alive. In some way or other." He let his head tilt. "You seem more alive than most people I meet in this job."

Dean snorted in amusement, looking at his feet and shaking his head. "You just don't know me."

"No," Alan agreed, "no, I don't. But sometimes someone on the outside looking in sees these things much more easily than those close to you."

Dean looked up slowly, studying Alan as if unaware of the rest of the room. "I ain't that good at what I do. Otherwise we wouldn't be here," he admitted darkly. "But hey, if you weren't so good at what _you_ do, I'm guessin' some of your clients would be dead by now."

"Odd how the cut-throat world of law and the dangerous underworld of 'monster hunting' seem to share these parallels," Alan smiled.

Dean's face relaxed until it almost looked amused. He looked back at the carpet. "You're good, man. I'll give you that. And you sure can talk."

"We'll see just how good my talk is, in an hour or so," Alan allowed, but he looked smug, there was no denying it.

Dean looked back at him, his face sly. Alan lifted his head and met his gaze. He smiled serenely. Dean's right eyebrow raised in amusement.

.

* * *

.

"The court will rise," the bailiff announced, as the judge opened his door and retook his chair. He waved them all down irritably.

"This has taken long enough. Madame Juror, could you give your verdict please?" he asked with impatience and annoyance.

The lady at the end, the one Alan fondly remembered as having teared-up so easily during his closing, stood slowly. She passed the paper forward to the bailiff and it was handed to the judge. He opened it, gave it a cursory glance, and handed it back.

She cleared her throat. "In the case of the Commonwealth versus Dean Winchester, on the charge of first degree murder, we find him: _not_ guilty."

Alan grinned until he heard a noise. He looked to his left, finding his client had plummeted somewhat unexpectedly back down into his seat.

"Thank you, Madame Juror, and the jury," the judge nodded. She sat and he lifted his gavel. "Case is dismissed, everyone's free to go, time for lunch, smoke 'em if you got 'em, yadda yadda yadda," he intoned. "And you, Prosecution, will make sure you actually have evidence before you trap me in this room with Mr Shore again." He ignored the looks from everyone else in the room and got up, disappearing through his exit door in disgust.

Alan heard the noise and hubbub and neglected everyone clamouring for his hand to shake or shoulder to pat. Instead he looked down at his client. "You didn't expect to win, did you?" he asked curiously.

Dean looked up at him, and Alan could have mistaken him for that bewildered twelve-year-old from nineteen ninety-one.

"N-no," Dean managed. He leapt to his feet. "Uhm - thanks."

"It's my job," Alan said curiously. He picked up his briefcase, opening it up on the desk and picking up various files and folders, dropping them inside. "If I may offer another observation?"

"Shoot."

Alan smiled. "Perhaps it hasn't happened in so long that you've forgotten it _can_ happen," he said, closing the briefcase again. "But sometimes you do win. Not because there are rules, but because of what you have done."

"Right," Dean havered, apparently confused. He looked around the courtroom, suddenly realising everyone was leaving. "What happens now?"

"Now? We've won, Mr Winchester, you're free to go."

"We won?"

"As I said - sometimes you _do_ win," he assured him.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," Dean agreed quickly, in a way that told Alan he still didn't quite get it.

"As for what happens next… Try looking after yourself, Mr Winchester, as well as that brother of yours. There are enough monsters in my world to deal with, without the thought of yours - whatever they really are. You go do whatever it is that you do, and I'll pretend I didn't tell you that Sam has already taken your lovely inscribed knife from the exhibits room. I will also pretend that I did not wish you good luck or tell you that I nurse the tiny hope that one day you will be able to bring your brother - and yourself - peace, whatever form that may take."

Alan Shore put out his hand.

Dean looked at it, comprehension dawning. "That's it?"

"That's it," Alan grinned.

"I can go?"

"You can go. You're a free man."

"I wish," Dean grumbled, but he clapped his palm into Alan's and they shook firmly.

"Goodbye, Mr Winchester."

"Goodbye, Mr Shore."

Alan grinned and picked up his case and coat, spiralling around and heading for the exit. Dean looked around the courtroom, shaking his head. Alan stopped suddenly and looked back.

"Oh, Mr Winchester?" he called.

"Huh?"

"If you should ever need my services again, please do not hesitate to call upon me. I believe Sam has my details."

"You'd go through this again?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Of course! As we have both said, it _is_ my job. And imagine how many cigars and glasses of whisky this will take to explain to Denny! He loves a good case of brotherly love over the Commonwealth. Until next time, Mr Winchester - safe travels."

Dean watched him stride out of the doors with a large, self-satisfied grin on his face. He blinked, snorted in amusement, and then decided he would push a stolen substitute for the Impala to its limits in a straight line to Bobby's place.

Via a cheeseburger.

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**FIN**

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* * *

_Hope it wasn't too predictable! I just worship Alan, I can't pretend I don't. And I know this one was a little Sam-lite, but the next will make up for that. :)_

_**Thanks for reading!**_


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